Because he looks at me like he feels the same way.

  Put yourself out there.

  “So you find me distracting?” I ask leadingly.

  “You are highly distracting, Peyton.”

  That’s promising, but then again, sex has been known to distract men. “What did you think of our tests? Did you learn anything?” I ask, trying to mask the hope in my voice.

  He swallows and nods, his hazel eyes flickering with something darker, deeper.

  That.

  I want to know what that is.

  That look is what I feel.

  “What did you learn?” I ask, holding my breath, hoping he’s going to say he learned that I’m the one. Maybe he doesn’t need to read between the lines of my blog to take a chance with me. Maybe he’ll take it anyway.

  His lips twitch in a wry grin. “That life doesn’t always play out like a romance novel,” he says, and my heart plummets.

  I want the romance of the romance novel.

  I want the sex and the love and the happiness.

  “But what if it could?” I ask, pushing past the ache in my chest.

  He taps my shoulder, grinning. “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Okay. Finish,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers.

  His fingers trace lingering lines on my hip as he says, “Life doesn’t always play out like a novel, or even often. But sometimes, every now and then, you’re so in sync with each other, you come together.” He stops abruptly, like he was about to say something more, and I wait, on the edge of possibility. But all he says is “Right?”

  There it is.

  We are just sex.

  He’s not catching feelings for me.

  I should kick him out. I should let him go. But I want one more time.

  And he’s going to give it to me.

  “Right,” I answer as I reach for him and bring him close, and he follows my lead.

  Taking my wrists, he pins them over my head, groaning with appreciation at the sight of me stretched out for him.

  He doesn’t say, One last time. He doesn’t have to. It’s clear.

  What’s clear, too, as he enters me is that getting over him now will take infinitely longer than last time.

  And honestly, I’m not sure I ever did.

  I think a part of my heart has always belonged to him.

  Maybe that makes me dishonest.

  Or maybe I’m finally being fully honest with myself.

  As Tristan moves in me, breathing with me, moaning with me, I’m certain now. I gave a part of myself to him ten years ago. And I never took it back.

  Trouble is, if I don’t retrieve it now, I’ll be lost for good.

  When he leaves, he kisses me goodbye at the door, soft, sweet, and quick.

  “Bye, Peyton.”

  “Bye, Tristan.”

  It feels like goodbye forever.

  And I hate this feeling.

  He holds the door open longer than he has to, then turns around and whispers my name. “Peyton?”

  It sounds like the opening of a prayer.

  “Yes?”

  “What I meant to say is . . .” His lips part, but no more words come. He just looks at me like he’s trying to understand the secrets of the universe. “What I meant to say is thank you.”

  It’s like a hand grips my throat. “For what?” I choke out.

  “For asking me to help you. For trusting me. I was so glad when you asked me. I didn’t want it to be some other guy. I hate the thought of anyone hurting you ever again.”

  But you’re hurting me right now. You’re hurting me, and you don’t even know it, you wonderful, beautiful, thoughtful man who doesn’t love me the same way.

  “You would never hurt me,” I whisper.

  He nods, swallowing roughly, his jaw tight. “I never would.”

  He steps into the hall, turns around one more time, and gives me a look that would make movie audiences throw their popcorn at the hero.

  A look that would make them shout, “Kiss her, tell her, love her!”

  But life isn’t like the movies. It’s not like the books.

  That’s what I learned this last week.

  After the door shuts, I let the tears rain down.

  27

  TRISTAN

  My hand doesn’t move. It’s stuck to her door like I can feel her through it. Like I can impart all the things I didn’t say.

  All the desperate, pathetic words that threatened to fall from my lips.

  Like I love you so much it hurts.

  Like I don’t want to read too deeply into your blog, but if you tell me you feel one-tenth of what I feel, I will be the happiest guy in the world.

  And like this—By “come together,” I didn’t mean sex. It’s hard for me to say what I mean because I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose another person I love. But let me try to say it better. Let me rephrase. Life doesn’t always play out like a novel, or even often. But sometimes, every now and then, you’re so in sync, you come together like it was meant to be for the two of you. Right?

  And she’d say yes, and she’d throw her arms around me and smother me in kisses, because this is our time. It has to be our time. We won’t get another chance.

  I’ve already let two opportunities pass me by.

  I’d be an idiot to let the third one go.

  Barrett would tell me as much. I smile privately, thinking of my brother. Of how I’ve tried to goad him into asking out Rachel, and how he’s tried to push me into speaking the truth to Peyton.

  How can I raise him to be a man of action, a man of truth, if I can’t do it myself?

  I can’t say one thing to him and do another. That’s not what my parents taught me, and it’s not what I want to impart to Barrett.

  In baseball, you get three strikes. You don’t fucking walk away from the plate after two shots. You either try to whack the ball over the fence or you go down swinging.

  I step away from the door then pace the hall, practicing, trying to figure out what the hell to say.

  I’m going to do this, and I’m going to do it right.

  And there’s one way to do just that.

  I need to go big. I need flowers and chocolate. I need to give her everything she wants.

  It’s Sunday night, but this is New York, a city that never sleeps, and I’m going to get the biggest bouquet and the best chocolate, and I’m going to come back and knock on the door and tell her the real reason I’m glad she asked me to be her partner.

  Because I want to be the only one for her.

  Always.

  That’s it.

  Fueled by this plan, I head for the elevator, willing it to whisk me downstairs faster so I can canvas all the nearby shops, find everything she likes, and return like the heroes in books do.

  Because even though I don’t read those stories, I know enough. You don’t show up empty-handed to tell the love of your life that you adore her.

  You go big or you go home.

  I rush down the street past a pair of late-night joggers, then a delivery truck dropping off a package. I race past a doorman in a fancy building, turning the corner toward the nearest bodega that sells flowers.

  My phone buzzes.

  Maybe it’s her.

  I slow slightly, grabbing it, and there’s a message from Barrett.

  Barrett: Fine. If it’s going to come down to this, I’ll be the bigger man. I’ll go first. I finally told Rachel how I feel.

  My grin stretches for a city block. Look at us, the Alexander men getting their acts together. I stop outside the store and reply.

  Tristan: And how did it go?

  Barrett: I actually told her a few days ago.

  Tristan: Oh, you did? And that’s good?

  Barrett: It’s good, but it’s not what you think. I’m home. Want to talk?

  And that’s when I know tonight’s confession has to wait.

  28

  PEYTON

  The Lingerie Devotee: Don’t Even Attempt to Try This at Home

  Blog entry

  Bathtub sex is a lie. Take a bath, have your lover feed you chocolate from beside the tub, then slip into a cute cotton robe and go to bed.

  Or better yet, come into my store first. I’m having a sale on cute cotton robes, lace V teddies, and red bras and panties. Half off.

  The Lingerie Devotee

  Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue

  29

  TRISTAN

  Barrett waits for me in the kitchen, drinking a can of LaCroix and scrolling through his phone.

  “Hey. How was rehearsal?”

  “It was good,” he says, setting down his phone. He yanks open the fridge, grabs a can, and slides it to me.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Take it. You’re going to need a drink. I’d give you a beer, but you don’t keep liquor in the house.”

  I take the can, pointing it at him. “You’re right. I don’t keep liquor here, and I hope you don’t drink till you’re legal—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He slides into a passable imitation of me. “But if I do, call you, and you’ll help me or my friends. And call an Uber. I know. But this isn’t about drinking. This is about something else.”

  I frown, cracking open the can of raspberry-flavored water, the back of my neck prickling. I have no clue what he needs to talk about, but I’m imagining the worst—drugs, depression, a friend committed suicide. I’m not the praying type, but I offer a silent request anyway as I take a drink then set down the can. “So, evidently we need drinks to talk?”

  “It’s metaphorical.” He chugs back some of his beverage, puts down the can, then exhales. “My liquid courage.”

  I squeeze his shoulder, worry thrumming through me. “What’s going on?” I ask evenly, because I don’t want to let on that he’s freaking me out. “Tell me what happened.”

  He drags a hand through his hair and breathes in loudly through his nostrils. “So . . . I took your advice. I told Rachel how I feel . . .”

  “And?” Every muscle in my body tenses.

  “And she agreed that I should go for it with Eli.” The words come out so quickly I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

  “Come again?”

  “Eli. He’s on the tech crew too. He’s into robotics and has shitty taste in music, since he likes pop, but I can forgive that because he has a wicked sense of humor. Also, he’s a Yankees fan.”

  If I thought he shined when he talked about Rachel, that had nothing on the sweetness I hear in his voice now. And with that, the dots start to connect. “When you were saying you wanted to tell Rachel how you feel, and that you needed to do it in your own time, you meant she was the first person you told that you like Eli?”

  “Yeah. She wasn’t surprised. And don’t worry—she’s not heartbroken. She didn’t think of me that way, and I’m glad. You, however, seem surprised.” His voice is strained, and there’s a touch of fear in his eyes.

  And I don’t want him to be scared. Not for one second.

  He’s brave.

  He’s completely brave. My seventeen-year-old brother just came out.

  “Yes, I’m surprised. But it doesn’t matter.” I laugh, relieved that he’s telling me he likes dudes rather than that someone broke his heart, or he’s addicted to opiates, or he’s unhappy every second of the day. “I was worried she’d hurt you, or that you were going to tell me you were depressed, or a million other things. But you’re not.” I let out a huge breath as I smile like a proud dad. “You’re telling me what you like, and I think that’s awesome.”

  He narrows his eyes, but the sliver of a smile appears. “It is?”

  “Yes! God, yes. You know yourself. You understand yourself. That is fantastic. This is fantastic.”

  He lets out a huge sigh, like he’s been taking on the weight of the world. “I was really worried.”

  “Why? Why would you worry?”

  “Because you’re soooo into girls.”

  My smile takes over. “And that means I’d want you to be soooo into girls?”

  His eyes widen. “Um. Yeah. You’ve been pushing me to ask out Rachel for, like, forever.”

  “You’ve been acting like you liked her! You spend all this time with her, and you’re all happy and upbeat when she’s around, and you pretty much said you were going to ask her out. We made a bet. Why would I think anything else?”

  “Fine. I led you on, but I just thought you wanted me to be like you. All manly and bearded and totally into curves.”

  A laugh bursts from deep inside me. “News flash. Whether you’re gay or straight isn’t what makes you manly.”

  He seems to consider this for longer than I would have expected, his hazel eyes darkening, turning serious. “What does, then?”

  His question is completely earnest.

  And it’s why I come home every night. It’s why I show up for him. So he has someone to ask these questions. Someone who can answer.

  But even though I was dead wrong about who he likes, I know I’m dead right when I give him my answer. I clasp his shoulder. “What makes a man a man is when he owns up to his mistakes, when he acts with integrity, when he speaks with honesty, and when he looks out for those he loves. And you . . .”

  I shake a finger at him, my voice breaking for the first time since my mom died. “I love you, Barrett. I love you like crazy, and I’m sorry if I made you think you had to like girls. You can like girls, or girls and boys, or just boys. Or everyone. Love is love, and I want you to love whoever you want. Okay?”

  His eyes shine, and he nods several times, pursing his lips like he’s holding back emotion too. I draw him in for an embrace, a long big-brother bear hug that I don’t want to break.

  But I do because I have to know something. I poke his chest. “Did you ask Eli to homecoming?”

  Barrett smiles. “I did.”

  “And?”

  His answer comes in the form of a grin.

  I grin too. “So, he said yes?”

  “He did. You’ll like him. He’s cool.”

  “And he’s smart, obviously, if he likes you.” Sunshine fills my chest. This is good. This is so damn good.

  Barrett blows on his fingernails then brushes them across his chest. “I am a prize.”

  “No doubt. You’re an Alexander man. And I’m glad you have a friend like Rachel. Glad you have someone you could talk to. Even if you told her before me.” I frown, giving him an over-the-top pout. “But you did trick me with your bet.”

  He raises one brow. “Did I though?”

  “Didn’t you? You said you’d ask her out.”

  He raises a finger to make a point. “I believe my deal was—if you ask out Peyton, I’ll tell Rachel how I feel.”

  My jaw comes unhinged. “You sneaky little punk,” I say in admiration. I flash back on all our recent Rachel conversations. Come to think of it, he never did say he’d ask her out. He always said he’d tell her how he felt. And he did tell her.

  He beat me to it, even though it wasn’t a contest.

  My little brother manned up before I did. And he did something even harder—seeing himself truly, and being honest with himself, his friends, and his family.

  He taps his toe. “And did you tell Peyton the truth?”

  For the first time in years, maybe even since our mom was alive, I speak aloud about Peyton with absolute honesty.

  “That I’m in love with her? That I fell in love with her in college? That I wanted to have a real chance with her a few years ago before Gage came back in her life? That she’s the one I want to spend my nights and mornings with?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Dude. You sound like you’re in one of those chick flicks.”

  I laugh, loving that he ribs me still. “And what of it?”

  “Save it for the woman. Tell her.” He stabs a finger on the kitchen counter. “Tell her now. As a wise man once told me: ‘I don’t want you to wait too long and then regret it,’” he says, quoting me back to me. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do. I absolutely do. And I was going to tell her tonight.”

  “Tell. Her. Now.”

  I nod dutifully, a good soldier.

  I pick up my phone to call her, to see if I can swing by, but it goes straight to voicemail.

  And that’s where it stays when I call again that night—a few times—and when I wake in the morning.

  30

  PEYTON

  Marley opens the door cautiously, glancing around like she might get in trouble. When she spots me behind the counter, she offers a toothy grin. “Hi.”

  Her voice is stretched thin, and I wonder if she did something wrong, or if I’m giving off don’t-disturb-the-bear vibes.

  Probably the latter.

  My vibes are dipped, battered, and fried in misery today, and no one wants to be near me.

  She reaches into her purse, fishes around for something, and extracts a Lulu’s chocolate bar with coconut and caramel.

  “I thought you might need this. You seem . . . not yourself,” she says, taking tentative steps toward the counter and setting the bar down gently, like I might attack.

  I smile faintly at the gesture. “I do need this. Thank you.” I grab the bar, rip open the wrapper, and bite into the corner, just as the bell tinkles.

  Shit.

  I can’t eat chocolate at the register. I can’t eat anything surrounded by all this silk and satin and lace.

  I’m a piggy-pig-pig.

  I shove the candy under the counter, checking my fingers to make sure I don’t have evidence of my chocolate therapy on them.

  “Was it good?”

  I raise my face, relieved to see Daniella. “It was delicious,” I admit.

  “You okay?” she asks, striding over to the counter.